“Tell about your neighbourhood,” plainly I put. “Oh, sir! It was wonderful. We were happy to live here for a long time. There was no
Four corners I have In one are buried my ancestors. In the next There sleeps a cooking pot. Over the third thatched roof
“Hey poet! Why do you look so sad? Searching seven heavens you bring home a queen at last. Be happy, and enjoy forever life of
It was sunset lone The sky deep orange, and the birds lined For homecoming, and lazily they gleamed. Thirteen peasants angling, their eyes fixed
One late summer afternoon I was returning back from the day’s rambling around Sarugaon tea garden. I surveyed the long green carpets stretched miles after miles,
Between the Jaldapara forest and the village lay an acre of land, cultivated, furrowed, unweeded. Yards had patches of all sorts of vegetables, maize, and
At Kunjanagar beside the potholed street stood I at blazing sunset lone. The orange cloudlets scattered the western horizon. Slowly evening descended, and tiny dew
A gifted versetile writer who writes excellent stories and poems on the invisibles, pariahs, margins, aged, weaklings of our society. A rising star on the literary firmament.
“Your story Undersell left me with a lump in my throat, so did your poem, He also lights candles.”
"A finely honed observational piece recording the minutiae of everyday life. Rendered with the author’s customary poetic aplomb suffused with a Borges like quality of the mythic."